Shades of the Past and Present
by DisguisedasInnocent
Summary: Memories of the past still haunt Quinn, but with a little help she's working through the pain. This is a piece looking back on what might have been Quinn's childhood. Written in 2nd Person.


_Author's Note: Hey there guys and gals! Long time no see, sorry about that. I'm working on the next update of Dancing With Somebody but for now I've got a few one-shorts and short stories in the work as well. This isn't the first time that I've written in 2nd Person, but it definitely isn't my normal tense, I'd like to see how you think I've done with it. Enjoy!_

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You stand in front of the mirror, you're deep hazel eyes taking in the shape of the scars that over your lower stomach and the tops of your thighs. You know that some of them come from the swelling of your stomach while you carried your daughter, but others come from a very different source. You lift your right hand, touching the pale red flesh surrounding a prominent white scar that runs from your left hip up towards your belly button. Your hazel eyes fill with tears at the memory of the wound inflicted upon your flesh, your body shuddering at the imprint of the force left on your mind. You don't want to remember it but the memory won't leave you alone. It batters against the protective walls you've built around your mind, smashing through the stones and bricks that you've built up over the years, forcing itself into your mind's eye.

"Lucy," You remember the sound of your father's voice as he called to you that night. His voice was caring at the time, soft and sweet in the way that you remembered that he spoke to you when he was pleased with something. You don't remember why he called but you remember the way that you smiled at him as you stood in front of his office door. "Come in here, I've got something to show you." The man murmured, holding out his hand to you before tangling your smaller fingers within his large hand. You knew that you couldn't do anything but move toward him then, your small feet padding across the floor to stand next to his desk.

You don't want to remember the way that he smiled at you as he tugged up your dress, shoving it over your hips as you stared at him in confusion. You don't want to remember it but you do anyway. You remember the way that his hand beat down against your bare backside, reddening the flesh until you didn't know if you would ever be able to sit down properly again. You remember the way that you whimpered then, obviously displeasing him before he turned you over and slapped you straight across the face. From that night onwards, you remembered never to raise your voice to him, not when he hurt you as he did.

The wound on your lower stomach came from one night when you displeased him in front of his friends, when they left he took you to his office, pressing you against the edge of his desk as he stripped off his belt and beat you with it. You remember the way that his blue eyes flashed with anger and hatred, shudders passing through your body when you remembered the way that he glared at you.

That night your mother took you into her arms and rocked you from side to side. Your tears soaked through the shoulder of her dress but she didn't care as she soothed your tears. You remember the way that she kissed your forehead, desperate to soothe you, desperate to stop the pain but you also remember the way that she flinched away from your father that night. You remember that she didn't do anything to stop him from hurting you even though she soothed you afterwards. It was that night that you learned one of the most important lessons of your young life; never rely on your mother to help you with your father.

Standing in front of the mirror, you allow your hazel eyes to take in the shape of a long jagged scar that ran from the top of your thigh to your knee. This wound was not years old. In fact, it was barely months old. You remember the night that you gave yourself that wound, a blade dragging down your thigh, through the protective barrier of your skin to split your thigh apart. Your eyes flutter closed as you remember the scent and the sight of the crimson red blood running down your pure white flesh and into the bottom of your shower cubicle.

That night was the night that you wanted to end your life. People questioned why you did it. They told you that you had everything to live for; they told you that you didn't have a reason to cry and cut yourself but you know that they don't know about your father. The image your family put across held for years, the perfect nuclear family. It was the perfect lie.

Just the idea of your family being happy made you want to laugh. It was something so foreign, so wrong, that you just couldn't resolve the image with the truth in your mind. People looking in from the outside didn't recognise the fact that your family was wrong. They didn't recognise the abuse that you went through because you pretended that it didn't exist. From an early age, you knew that if you told someone that he or she wouldn't believe you, you knew it would get back to your father and from that moment on your life wouldn't be worth living. It was a simple fact that you grew up knowing.

"Quinn," You remember the sound of your best friend's voice as she stepped into the hospital room. You remember the shade of her deep brown eyes, the way that the light sparkled from inside them instead of off them, the way that your heart jumped inside your chest at the sight of the water collecting in her eyes. "Why did you?"

You remember the way that she asked the question. The softness of her voice as she stepped up to the side of your bed, her hand reaching out to cover yours as it lay at your side on the bed. You remember the way that your own voice crackled from disuse as you tried to answer her question. You remember the way that you clenched the hand not tucked inside Santana's hand around the bed sheets. "I hurt Santana," You answered her simply, your eyes connected with her deep brown orbs, trying to show your pain through your shared gaze. "I hurt every day and this was the only way that I could make it go away."

Santana was the first one that tried to make you talk about the pain. She was the first one to believe that you were hurting. She was the first one that believed you when you told her about your father. She believed the words as they spilled from your lips and into her ears.

"My father," You remember telling her, the walls around your mind tumbling down as you tried to hold yourself together. "He beat me. He abused me."

You can remember the look that Santana's eyes held when she heard those words. The livid pain that flashed across her eyes before the tears began to stream down her cheeks. You remember wanting to reach out with your hand to wipe those tears away. You remember wanting to take Santana's face into your hands to soothe her pain like your mother had soothed your pain all those years before.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Santana's question had pierced your heart at the time. You remember choking on an answer but never being able to spit it out of your mouth. You wanted to tell her that you didn't say anything because you were scared that it would have meant that she was in danger. However, that was not what you said. What you said was that you didn't think anyone would believe you.

It took three days for Santana to come back to your room after that night but when she did, the others followed her. They followed her and stood in your room with tears running down their faces, each of them promising that they would do better in the future, promising that you could rely on them to help you. You wanted to believe them, but something inside you couldn't. You couldn't believe them. After all, people broke their promises all the time, but the gesture itself warmed your heart.

"What are you thinking about?" A voice whispered into your ear, prompting a smile to come over your lips. Your eyes sparkle as you look into the deep brown pair in the mirror, the woman's tanned cheek pressed against your own pale one as she stands behind you with her head resting lightly on your shoulder. "You've got a beautiful smile." The woman murmured, her own lips twisting into a smile to make yours.

"I was just thinking about how far we've gone," You answer truthfully, reaching backwards to take her hands within your own, pressing them against your stomach together over one of the long scars that litter your body. Before Santana, you thought that they made you ugly but she taught you that the scars were the proof that you've come through everything stronger at the end. Santana taught you to love your own body, with her gentle touches and soft caresses, her fingers working over your body in ways that you'd only ever imagined in the depths of your dreams.

Santana nodded behind you, turning her face to press her lips against your neck just below your ear, smiling brightly at the shiver that the action caused. "We've come a long way," The girl muttered softly, the tips of her fingers stroking over your bare stomach lightly. "I'm glad that we proved to you that you've got people to lean on."

"I'm glad you're the one I'm leaning on right now." You answer gently, proving your point by leaning your body against Santana properly, leaving her to hold up your weight in her strong arms. It was a proven fact that while you held the height advantage over Santana, she could take care of you as well as any of the boys that you've dated in your life. In fact, she could take care of you better, in all the ways that matter.

Santana chuckled, nuzzling her nose against your throat her hands drifting down to your hips to push on them sharply, twisting your body in her arms until you faced one another. Your head tilted down ever so slightly, your eyes locking with Santana's chocolate orbs, your lips parting to blow your warm breath over her lips. "Kiss me." Santana whispered lightly, her words blowing against your bottom lip as she spoke, her eyes flickering between your lips and your hazel eyes.

"Always," You reply, because it's true. You would kiss her forever if you had the choice. You wouldn't ever allow your lips to part. You felt most alive when connected with her, with your hands tangled tightly together, your lips pressed against one another or your bodies intertwined in the heated moments.

Santana's lips parted to release a chuckle, but you muffled the sound by pressing forward, capturing her mouth with your lips to swallow the sound. Your lips twisted together in an intimate dance. Your tongue slid out of your mouth, moving over her bottom lip, flicking across it lightly before trailing over its length to encourage her to part her lips to give you access to her mouth.

The kisses between the two of you hadn't always been as straightforward. At the beginning, she was gentle, her lips barely touching yours because she still felt as if you were going to break if she pressed too hard. After a while, she moved harder, pressing for what she wanted and showing you the right way to kiss her in return.

It takes a long five minutes for the ache of your lungs to overpower the need to keep your lips connected with Santana's mouth, but when you pull away, you lean your forehead against her forehead, your lips twisted into a soft smile. "I've lived through hell," You whisper against her mouth, your breath blowing over her lips. "But now I've found my heaven."


End file.
